


Apples and Oranges

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Het, M/M, NYC - Freeform, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Big Apple angstfest!  That's a genre now, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apples and Oranges

**Title:** Apples and Oranges  
 **Author:** **Rating:** R (for the het)  
 **Disclaimer:** Pairing: Zach/Chris, Zach/Olivia, (Chris/Olivia)  
 **Warning:** het!  
 **Author's Notes:** Big Apple angstfest! That's a genre now, right?

 

"It's what you wanted," Chris says, leg up against Zach's where they're squished into the sideways subway seats. Zach's dizzy from the jostly movement of the train.

"I know. But it's still like, you know, graduating from high school or something. You can't wait to leave but it's still scary. You know, Chris?"

Chris is smiling at him like he's been created to sit next to him and be warm and smile. Zach leans in a sweet distance to kiss him a little.

Chris laughs, low and close while Zach feels unaware of himself, like he's made up solely of flighty happy emotions and flighty terrified ones, all of them insubstantial.

The lights are flickering in a glowy way from above, around the edges of the car, giving Chris a soft-focus.

Zach finds Chris's hand on the rough fabric of the cushion, rubs his thumb back and forth over his wrist while he speaks: "Like, what . . . okay, I know how nauseating this sounds, but what am I supposed to complain about, now? Like, what am I supposed to blame for holding me back or whatever? There's nothing, now—it's all on me and not just The Business or the National Bullshit Corporation or whatever, you know?"

"And you're gonna miss seeing your friends from the show all the time."

"I . . . yeah, I mean. Yeah."

Chris laughs. "What was that?"

"I dunno." Zach fingers fretful patterns over Chris's thigh. "They're not . . . Kristen's my only really good friend from Heroes, and we were friends before . . . "

"You love your friends, man! You're a . . . a friend maker kinda guy. You know?"

"Yeah, I know. But sometimes . . . Okay. I know how to make friends, but I don't know how to do that without, like, actively trying to. You know?"

"Nope," Chris says, cocky before nuzzling their faces. Says, quiet: "What about me?"

"You're different."

"Because we're fucking? Because we're star-crossed?"

Zach gets a jolt of discomfort. "We are?" But Chris is smiley and climby, warm swish of his bare arm against Zach's neck as he snuggles in. The train jostles but Chris makes it inconsequential—they could be on an icy bench in the middle of a snow storm and Zach wouldn't give a shit about hypothermia. "I'm not complaining. Just, this is so easy, isn't it?"

Feels Chris nod against his shoulder.

"It's so easy. It should be this easy."

"It is," Chris laughs, moves his head enough to brush his lips against Zach's neck. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because you never call me."

"I text you."

"Sometimes, but I can't just text you my random thoughts throughout the day because you're not, like, we're not real friends. Are we real friends?"

"You and me are easy," Chris soothes. "Why wouldn't it be this easy?"

"It should be."

"Yeah. So come and get me."

Zach laughs. "I've already . . ." Oh fuck it, the smell of Chris's soap-hairgel-deodorant fills Zach up too comfortably for thought. "Huh?"

Chris laughs, slipping through Zach's fingers to stand across the aisle from him on the subway, arm looped around a pole, all plaid shirttails and come-hither eyes. 

Zach follows, strand of worry slicing through all that goopy domesticity when Chris moves to the front of the empty car to stand by the door. The train halts suddenly, shoves them together so much that Chris kisses him, soft subtle sucking and he smiles against Zach's jaw and ducks out onto the subway platform before Zach can respond.

The doors shut between them and Chris doesn’t even turn around, walks confidently away with his back to Zach as the train zips off into the tunnels again and fuck, Chris was the one who knew where they were supposed to get off—was Zach supposed to go with him or . . . fuck, he has no fucking idea how to get off the fucking subway . . .

_RRRRRRR RRRRRRR RRRRRRR RRRRRRR_

Zach jumps awake.

*

The internet professes that the lost on a train thing speaks to lack of direction and worry about the future, although Zach's pretty sure it's a sign that he's been spending too much time on the subway. But the Chris thing just pisses him off—he's been over it for a long time, and Zach doesn’t like how the fake memory of all that warm happiness lingers throughout his day.

He walks to avoid the train, and it's rained the night before so the sidewalks are brown, every smattering of greenness on his path smelling more pungent than usual. 

Someone's going slow in front of him because of their dog, and Zach has to step out onto the street to pass them, locks eyes with the piece of fluffy Bichon for a moment and gets this weird feeling like the dog's gonna pass along the message of Zach's homesickness for Noah and feels a little better.

He's getting coffee when his phone buzzes: _Chris Pine, CAPTAIN Chris Pine_. It's a little ironic, and Zach's heart jumps at it, but he's also annoyed that he can't tell Chris why it's ironic without seeming like a creeper.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Chris says, layers of phone turning his voice into something completely different.

"Coffee. How's life out there?"

Zach imagines him shrugging. "Good. People are good. Noah's good. Are you good?"

"I'm sorry, Zach isn't here right now. Please check his Twitter for updates on his life."

Zach's angsting over his words—he _thinks_ he's speaking normally, but he's also being influenced by that fake glowy feeling of intimacy simmering in his gut. Worries that he's acting too familiar, but it's not like they _don't_ act familiar, and it's not like if Chris _did_ notice he'd be able to deduct the nature of Zach's super secret not-a-sex-dream about him, so—

"Your tweets are interesting," Chris says, realizes he needs to elaborate: "I don't know. They're, like, poetic."

"Really? Do you think like—do you get it? Do you get it? I mean, I'm actually sort of going for something more artsy, and it's not really about being cryptic, it's just—why tweet something mundane in a mundane fashion? You know? I'm so glad you—"

"Woah there—okay, so maybe what I was trying to say was that they're pretentious and douchey, but yeah, let's just go with poetic."

"Fuck you."

Chris laughs. "Sorry. It's cool, though. I don't think _you're_ pretentious and douchey. Just your virtual persona."

Zach exhales amusement against the phone.

"So . . ." Zach swears he can hear him lick his lips. "How are you about the whole, you know. Heroes?"

"It's okay," Zach says in a hurry, kicks himself for how unconvincing it sounds. "It's what I wanted, I mean . . ."

"It is?"

"Um, ha." How the fuck has Zach's frustration with the show escaped Chris's attention? "Yeah. I complain about work all the time, dude."

"Yeah, but, I dunno, I didn't think you were serious. I mean, I didn't think you _seriously_ wanted your show to end. I thought that was just because it was getting in the way of Trek stuff. I mean, it was a pretty sweet gig, wasn't it?"

"I know, no, I know. I'm not like, jumping for joy over here, but I'm just saying it'll be nice to move on."

"Mm. Yeah . . . " Chris doesn't get it.

"It's still scary to be out of work all of a sudden like this, don't get me wrong. It's like graduating from high school or something. You can't wait to leave but it's still scary. You know, Chris?"

"Yeah . . ." Nope, still not getting it. What the fuck?

"And you know, I'm gonna miss seeing my friends from the show all the time."

"Yeah, that sucks. Especially now that you're out in New York and everything. But no worries—I'll stick with you though thick and thin."

Zach laughs. "I know. You're different than my other friends. I mean, my work friends. I mean, my other work friends. You know?" Zach's actually cringing at himself now.

"I'm different?" It's like Zach can hear Chris's raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, no, I mean," Zach stumbles. "I dunno, our friendship is easy. It's not just convenient or like, just for work." Right?

"Oh," Chris says. "Yeah, I guess. No, you're right . . ." A sigh, and Zach can't decipher him no matter how hard he tries.

"Yeah, I've gotta go, too," Zach says.

"What? I didn't say I—"

"Oh, sorry, I just thought—"

"No no, it's cool," Chris says, sounds annoyed. "I'll just—"

"Yeah. Talk to you later."

"Yeah. Absolutely. Okay."

"Okay, yeah." Zach would kick himself if he could.

"Bye."

*

Zach notices Olivia's dress because he's gay—more specifically, _because_ he's gay, women always seem to expect him to notice what they're wearing, and tend to overlook the fact that the gay thing means Zach doesn't give a shit about what _women_ are wearing. But something about her dress screams Christian Siriano, which makes Zach want to start saying 'fierce' all the time and totally pull it off. It could just be the ruffles . . .

"Zach," she says, wide-eyed and thrown—and how _should_ she act toward the guy she once bitched out for oogling her boyfriend a little too obviously, anyway? Before flouncing off without a thought away from Chris and on to greener pastures. Meaning New York? So apparently she and Zach are on the same page, here. About Chris. Again.

Zach's becoming a little jaded by mismatched feelings and the way reality lines up with the way reality has been in the past, so he forgets about hating her a little and just says, "You look, wow, _fierce_." And she simpers at him. "What are you doing in New York?" 

"Oh, I'm actually working here now. How great is this city?"

So they're gonna do that flat out ignorance of the past thing and resort to the smallest of the small talk? That's totally cool with Zach. He's fucking beat up by the past, and he wants to go back to enjoying the vibrant, compacted city atmosphere again. Keeps him and his paranoia occupied. 

"Yeah," Zach says, walking over to a quieter corner and getting her to follow. She smiles without malice, with her hair pulled back in a classy way and her freckles unavoidably cute. 

"So."

" _So_ . . ."

And Zach gets an impulse to let the fuck go—here, to this woman he's mostly despised for so long for such dumb, petty reasons: "I was sick of LA. I was sick of everything about it, you know? Little things. _Everything_. Like . . . the need for sunglasses and SPF 85. The lack of public transportation. The pretentious as fuck coffee shops. The names of places, I dunno. Work. The way acting isn't like work out there—like, it's _entertainment_ , and it's your whole life. You have to dress the part and act the part all the time. I was sick of—"

"The events?"

" _Yes_ , God, and _professional_ friends, you know?"

"Pretending to like people you hate."

"Exactly—exactly! And always having to be . . . 'on', or whatever. Like, oh shit, I've gotta interact with Madonna today like that's totally fucking normal. You know?"

"Yes!"

Zach laughs.

Olivia smiles, which ruins the moment because it makes Zach remember her looking like that at Chris. "Hey," she says. "We've really gotta get coffee sometime, you know?"

"Yes! Yes, no, definitely. And catch up." They're definitely not gonna do that, but Zach does feel a little better.

*

Zach texts. He does. He's tech-savvy and he has friends and he texts them. That's what you do with your friends.

Zach has a _lot_ of friends now—more than are actually people he enjoys spending time with, and sometimes he thinks of his life like it's Facebook, pokes people just to remind himself that they're part of his network.

He hasn't had a _best_ friend since high school, and he misses that. He hasn't had a boyfriend who he could be real, tell-everything-to _friends_ with, well, _ever_. Why can't he make that happen?

Like, he'll text Kristen about gossip and Other Zach about stand-up comedians and Chris about random Trek-related shit that he sees on the subway or whatever, but he doesn't have anyone to gossip about Trek-related stand-up comedians with. He's so spread out, and he never feels like he's totally himself with anybody. 

Zach walks down the street, peripheral glances at the brown leather bags of passersby while he texts. He doesn't miss his friends—the internet exists, and AT&T serves him well for the most part. New York is close and cleanly structured around him, like the big stony buildings are a labyrinth to shield him from the wildly open, unpredictable reality of the rest of the world. LA. Something.

Chris texts him back first:

>   
> Instead of saving the whales Kirk et al should've plugged the damn hole in the gulf. With Tony Hayward

Chris . . . yeah, Chris could be his best friend. They have enough in common, more than just Trek shit. Politics, cardigans, adverb usage. You know, the simple things.

>   
>  **or just introduced dilithium crystals as an alternative energy source a couple of decades ago.**   
> 

> That's totally not how those work. You're a shitty Spock dude :P

The only problem is that Zach wants _Chris_ more than he wants Chris to be his friend, and that's a pretty major something that they don't have in common.

*

There's a glow on the sidewalk ahead—lightning bug. Lightning bug! Zach can't stop the little burst of childish glee, doesn't even give a shit about who sees him chasing after it on impulse until he's got the thing crawling calmly over the back of his hand. Neon blushes over Zach's skin that remind him of backyards and safe 10-year-old recklessness. The insect lounges on Zach's hand for another block, like it knows it's gotta keep him company just a little bit more before fluttering off into the night.

Zach can't figure out where his feet are taking him, turns down unexplored streets on impulse and enjoys how easy it is to see new sights—there's always so much more of the world than he thinks there is, and it's relieving to know he doesn’t have to be stuck with the same old streets, shortcuts, restaurants, neighbors' cars. He'd moved halfway across the country, hadn't he? And he still needed to find something even _newer_ , even after so many weeks here.

The bar looks quiet and simple and it has a weird name. Reminds him of that one on the South Side at home, 'Library' or whatever, except it's hidden away between sophisticated New York buildings instead of all in a row along East Carson amid the swarm of drunken college assholes. Zach had been one of those idiots, and he's been trying to get back to his roots anyway, so might as well go all out, right?

There's a distinct lack of black and gold in the bar, and it's not overflowing with obnoxiously hot frat boys from Pitt but there's still alcohol, and Zach can still sit there and reminisce and try to remember the last time he had a best friend—thinks about going out to bars sophomore year with his one friend that had turned 21 and getting abandoned after an hour when she'd found a 'business' major to prey on. He misses the petty, inconsequential hierarchies of college life, misses the standard topics of gossip and the nice little niche he'd fit into—artsy, mostly fun and a little bit flaming but intently, frantically mature, deep down. Why couldn't he just fit back into that, here? Wasn't that supposed to happen? This was supposed to be easy . . . 

Zach isn't drinking out of some pathetic sense of melancholy about his life—he's doing it because he feel compelled to, like his body didn't even consult him before leaping into alcoholic action. It's what he's supposed to do right now, and the burn of the liquid doesn’t even feel good or soothing. Doesn’t even feel like anything, but that's why he's doing it, and . . .

He gets drunk quick, watches the brand names behind the counter swimming and blurring and tries like crazy to think about nothing, visions of bright eyes and laughter and frozen moments of potential dancing in his head.

Someone bumps into him and all that registers at first is a flash of douchey polo shirt and the reek of Axe with cheap-ass beer for the chaser—the frat boys of Christmas Past. It pisses Zach the fuck off.

"Watch it, asshole," he grumbles, not really intending to be heard.

"Excuse me?" Oh, whoops. The guy turns on him with a fuzzy but growing in haircut and a dumbly scruffed stubble thing going on that reminds Zach of other people and _that_ pisses him off even more.

Zach laughs. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just proclaiming to the world that you're an asshole. Or didn't you hear me the first time? Do you, like, need me to repeat it? Attention patrons!—this guy's a fucking _asshole!_ " He can't stop the good dark feeling he gets from lashing out like he really wants to.

"You wanna go, homo?" And it's such a ridiculous thing to hear somebody actually say that Zach just laughs.

"That totally rhymed, dude," Zach says, no matter that Asshole is encroaching, red-faced and pissed off. "Props to you for that. And anyway, what is this, 1900? Keep up to date on your pejorative terminology—you're supposed to call me a faggot and I'm supposed to call you a, I don't know, what are you in this particular instance? A redneck, certainly, but that just doesn’t seem low enough. Ignorant as fuck douchebag? Dickhead? Motherfucker? Republican?" 

Zach can't see well enough through the red haze of anger unleashed to see that incoming fist, realizes too late and sort of leans into the pain because why the fuck not? It's not like he can feel much of anything, and it's always nice to feel something.

But it's okay, 'cause Zach's gonna retaliate. He's done enough pretend Hollywood fighting to have a pretty decent grip on self-defense, so he shakes his head to scare off the black spots and his vision and gets in the guy's personal space quick. Zach knows he can be intimidating if he wants to be, and he lets the threat of it all sink in before winding up and—

Okay, so going for Zach's unprotected stomach was admittedly a smart move on the part of his opponent, and maybe Zach's so winded and wide-eyed with pain that he doubles over and stumbles over a barstool and makes a pathetic sound, but this is _far_ from over and he's gonna kick this guy's ass, and—

He can practically feel his eye turning colors, swelling up to meet his developing headache.

"Zach? Zach. Hey, Zach." Someone's shaking him, a female someone, and Zach figures the odds of getting another facefull of fist are considerably less, so he turns around.

Familiar, hated features wrapped up in a skimpy purple dress that brings out her eyes. Olivia traces Zach's blossoming bruise and the honest concern on her face makes it impossible for Zach to summon the energy to despise her. God, it's just one thing after another today, isn't it?

"What's a classy broad like you doing in a place like this?" Zach asks her.

"Cut the crap—what the fuck are you doing?" Olivia leads him away from the crowd to talk better. "You're losing it. You're freaking me out."

"Yeah?" Zach laughs, sniffs, turns his head to mumble to himself: "What do you care?"

"Zach, you've gotta—"

"No I don't 'gotta'. You're fucking—I'm fine and I'm allowed to get drunk if I feel like it. I am _capable_ of deci—"

Olivia holds up a hand, says normally: "Okay." Zach deeply suspects that she gets how he's feeling, and that makes him feel sorry for her a little. "So let's get you drunk."

Olivia orders for them and they down the toxic liquid like it's really gonna help with whatever. There isn't a lot of talking, just quiet, strange camaraderie and Zach likes not having to fake an interest in someone he has approximately one thing in common with. For once.

"I'm . . . sorry," Olivia says, unexpected.

Don't be. It doesn't matter anymore. It's not your fault I'm a fucking idiot. " _Why_ -y?" Zach says, going for adorably whiny.

She laughs despite herself. "No, stop it. I am. Just—"

" _So_ full of yourself . . ."

Olivia laughs and smiles.

Zach smiles back and doesn't even know what he's about to say next until he ends up kissing her.

He should be surprised by how easily Olivia responds, arm looping up to keep him there and mouth engaging softly. No little noise of surprise, no dramatic shove. She sucks slyly on his bottom lip and he can feel her smile against his chin when she pulls away, pulls him with her across the floor without a word.

They end up at Olivia's hotel—so, so quickly—and Zach's pushing her slinky purple dress off and away so, so quickly, excited by the speed and the foreign, curvy territory.

Zach's surprised—he'd always thought an encounter with a member of the opposite sex would be more jarringly unappealing, but he has to say that after a certain count of drinks, a mouth is a mouth and he doesn't really care who's attached to the hand palming the front of his pants. She wants it and that's appealing enough on its own. According to his cock, at least.

Olivia slaps a condom into his hand out of nowhere, laughing at the look on his face and pulling him back to the bed and pulling him out of his pants, diving in to take a long suck on his hardening cock like it's a fucking yummy ice cream pop thing and he's slightly too freaked out by her enthusiasm to enjoy it. No time to worry about it, though—she's snatched the wrapper back and is rolling the condom over his cock like she's worried he'll remember she's got actual boobs and dangly earrings on and is determined to capitalize on, well, him, as quickly as possible. Zach can't really disagree, and anyway he's out of his mind with raw, unexpressed, completely un-allowed lust for someone three-thousand miles away.

Olivia gets down to business, yanks him down onto the bed on top of her and Zach likes that, likes her smooth skin and the brilliantly green lashy look she gives him, saying, "Want you, Zach. Want your cock so fucking bad."

And Zach's cock seems enthusiastic about that, and Zach figures it can't come up with worse ideas than his brain has lately—he lets it take the reins, lets Olivia's legs twist him into position and lets her kiss him with lots of luscious tongue as he lines up and goes for it.

Her pussy's perfect and enveloping, and Zach's gotta admit that being with a woman's a lot easier on the preparation front, the way her body's drawing him in and massaging and the elegant, lazy drape of her legs over his hips. He hitches one up, smooth skin and lean muscle, and pushes the rest of the way into her.

Olivia's brows crease and her mouth gasps and Zach thinks of her as a mirror, reflecting back at him what Chris has seen and making Zach feel what Chris had felt and making that the closest Zach's gonna get to seeing the real Chris like this. It blinds Zach a little, and he thrusts hard and gets her to claw at him with fake silver nails and buck her hips up to meet him. 

The soft give of Olivia's body compels Zach to hold her down and fuck in harder, deeper, until her growly seductive moans morph into high-pitched puffs of air and she's twisting the pillow above her head into oblivion. 

Zach rubs vaguely at her clit and her whole body shudders deliciously around his cock—rubs again, light then hard, wracks her with dizzyingly stimulating shudders again before holding her wrists still, deep into the pillows so he can thrust deep into her pussy, circles around her clit some more with his free hand and uses the wetness to flick at her nipples, making her squirm even more, hips grinding wildly and a bit counter-intuitively to Zach's rhythm but it feels so fucking good he can't bring himself to give a shit.

Zach's getting close and Olivia's like a mirror again—this is how it feels to want release, this is how Chris feels, how he wants, maybe this is something else they have in common, Chris fucking her or fucking Zach Zach fucking him Chris Zach Chris Chris Chris oh fuck _Chris_ —

Zach comes inside of her, unsure what to do until she seizes his hand and shoves it between her legs, gasps instructions and encouragement and bucks wetly against him until her own heated moans die down and she's dazed and contented on the bed next to him, naked and unexpectedly similar to Zach's usual bedfellows except for two or three little details. She's sighing and unaware of him for the moment so Zach indulges in an imaginary Chris-flavored afterglow because nobody's gonna know, and Olivia's probably thinking of him too—Zach's probably as much of a substitute as she's been and fuck if it didn't feel fucking amazing. He can't even bring himself to care about how pathetic it is anymore.

*

Zach answers his phone. "Hey, Chris. What's up, buddy?"

"Hey! Hey, man, not too much. Hey, do you know a good place to get coffee in like—" An onslaught of background noise with honking cars and wind and people.

Zach frowns. "Wait, where are you?"

"I dunno, that's what I'm trying to figure out, here." A frustrated, staticy sigh. "I dunno. Fuck. It says like, Saint Marks P.L., so like place, I guess, but I don't know what the number from the other way is, you know? I dunno."

"You're . . . in New York?"

"Yeah no shit, but I can't figure out _where_ in New York I am. No, listen, there's this building with like, especially interesting bricks across the street, and—"

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

"I did!"

"Nope."

"Oh, ha. Sorry. I really thought I had. Jeez, I've been here for a couple of days now, so I guess that explains why you haven't called me up for a night on the town."

"Oh, Chris," Zach sighs, studiedly long-suffering. "First you forget to call me and then you forget that your phone has a handy dandy GPS, and I'm pretty sure it can figure out where New York City is . . ."

"Oh. Huh. I guess that would make sense."

"It does make sense." Zach shakes his foot, tries to think around the weird way that the sound of traffic over the phone seems to connect them, like Chris could be outside right now or they'd just missed each other on their morning coffee runs. "Well, you know my door's always open . . ."

A gust of wind in the middle of Zach's sentence makes Chris say, " _What?_ "

"I said, you can—" More godforsaken wind. "Do you wanna come over?"

"Yeah . . ." Chris sounds preoccupied. "Yeah, I guess I could before . . . yeah. Sure. Just text me your address, 'cause I'll forget it if you just tell me."

"'Kay."

Forty-eight minutes later, Zach opens the door to bescarfed Chris.

"Hey, man, what's up?" Chris smiles.

I fucked your ex-girlfriend. "Hi!"

Chris's face falls. "What the fuck?" Reaches out to trace the bruise over Zach's eye. "What the _fuck?_ What happened?"

Ah, shit. "Oh, um. Heh. Got into a, well, yes, got into a bar brawl."

Chris can't hold back a disbelieving laugh, but his face is shifting from worried to annoyed. "Are you fucking kidding me, Zach? This is some kind of cry for attention or something? God, what the fuck, man?"

Zach laughs it off, but that only seems to intensify Chris's concern. "They were dumb, ignorant douches and I wasn't in the mood for their bullshit." He tries laughing again. "Can't a guy defend himself? Jeez . . ."

Chris is still peering at Zach like he doesn't quite recognize him. "Yeah, okay. Just try not to make a habit of drunken rages in public or elsewhere, okay?"

And Zach is totally good at acting—Chris can't even tell how much Zach's juggling the tale of his nonchalant violence with the sharp, piercing lust that being in Chris's presence and smelling his smell has inspired. "Don't be an idiot."

And now they're just standing on the overly priced rug by the entryway twiddling their thumbs. So much for their friendship being easy—it really should be, and it pisses Zach off that he always has to actively work for any level of comfortable intimacy, especially because with Chris he wants it to be simple and natural. But it just isn't. And holy God does he smell good today—what the fuck?

"So," Chris says, cheerful with a note of fakeness. "Why did you wanna meet up?" And for all that he's only _acting_ out the part of an eager, happy friend, Chris is really fucking cute when he isn't trying to be an alpha male.

"Well, why not? You're in town . . ."

"Yeah." Chris smiles, expectant and hapless. _Really_ fucking cute.

I fucked your ex-girlfriend. Zach blinks it away. "There's an after party tonight over on—"

"Well, I've actually got a thing later and—"

"I fucked y—" Chris gives him an odd look. "Man, I really fucked up on scheduling today. Can we just hang out tomorrow instead?"

"Yeah . . ." He's concerned, and it isn't helping with the cuteness. What a dick. "Yeah, sure."

And they're _definitely_ not gonna do that, and Zach feels like shit about it.

*

Zach is all suited up for the Event and mingling innocently with drink in hand when someone participating in the circle jerk of a conversation spits out two syllables that send Zach's heart thudding in his chest immediately: 'Chris' and 'Pine', words that are so innocuous on their own and so devastating when they get together like that.

Zach knows he shouldn't, but he's unable to stop himself from escaping the little group of quite possibly valuable contacts to go in search of a refill a.k.a. just skulk around the place like a loser for any sign of Chris.

He's a couple of Coronas into drowning his sorrows at the open bar when he feels a hand on his shoulder and his eyes widen at the familiar cologne wafting at him along with that familiar voice: "Hey, stranger," Chris murmurs.

Zach laughs, cheeks heated from the booze and heart constricted from how easy Chris makes it seem, sitting easily on the stool next-door and touching him easily and flashing an easy-going smile before saying, "Cheers!" and clinking their glasses. His eyes look too happy for him to be all that sober, and Zach's response should be the opposite of suggesting they do a couple of shots, but Zach can't seem to control his actions in this city, not when glimpses of Chris are so few and far between. He's allowed to capitalize on the situation too, goddammit. He's fucking _allowed_ to make something go right for himself for once.

"You should do a play," Zach tells him, several sheets to the wind later. "You should. You like doing plays."

"What, here? _When?_ God, too fucking _busy_ . . ."

"So what, just, just do a fucking play, man. You fucking love it, man. You do."

Chris laughs. "Oh, come on. You just want me to be over here because you have no excuse to run into me around town all the time now that Heroes is canceled." He's laughing. He doesn't have a clue how accurately he's just hit the nail on the head. Zach doesn't know what to do, can't take another second of Chris so fucking close and so fucking forbidden—this stupid, asshole barrier between them where Zach is trapped on a train going nowhere and lost as all fuck and Chris just walks away without looking back like it's no big deal.

Zach's common sense gets shoved way to the back of his mind with a wave of hot, panicky need need need and he turns Chris's chin and secures him by the back of his neck to kiss him, wet lips that burn alcohol onto Zach's and the most beautiful, musical exhale Zach's ever heard.

Zach doesn't expect Chris to respond at all, let alone collapse off of the stool and into Zach like he does, easy, mouth moving in languorous tandem, giving and giving and letting Zach take just as much.

Chris's soap-hairgel-deodorant fills Zach's entire being, stubble scratching and shirt soft and mouth magnetized to Zach's. They'll work past the bite of the lingering alcohol eventually and then Zach can taste him properly, shove him down on a bed somewhere and make him crazy with bliss and make him want Zach just as much, fuck, please, it's too easy for it not to happen—

Chris pulls back on a laugh, cute and ravishable and drunk off his ass and a fucking imbecile. "Woah. Ha, sorry, man. Jeez. Time to cool it with the shots, huh?" Gets back on his own stool and keeps laughing like they're both laughing about it. "But yeah, I'll probably do a play next year, you know, after all this other stuff is out of the way, 'cause, you know . . ." But Zach stops listening.

He's looking at Chris and waiting for the Berger-esque _I'm sorry, I can't, don’t hate me_ speech but it just isn't coming. And Carrie's wrong, as usual—it's still better to be formally rejected on a Post-it than politely ignored in real life.

"Hey, man," Chris is saying, all amusement as he checks his phone and hops off the stool. "I've gotta head out. We've really gotta get coffee sometime, you know?"

*


End file.
